


lay down.

by dimpleddarling



Series: the tumblr alchemist [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Choking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Night Terrors, Nightmares, One-Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Royai - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 20:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21167573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimpleddarling/pseuds/dimpleddarling
Summary: Her body hurts.She’s been in this cell for…how long, now? She lost count. She had been doing so well, marking up the walls for the hours that she thought had passed, but now she’s being dragged away from the cell that’s held her for so long,They got her right at the party, didn’t listen to her as she repeated her rank over and over again, didn’t listen when they threw her in the dark cell and slammed the door shut. She had struggled once, tried to get away from them, but all she was rewarded with was a stinging pain in her cheek and a black eye.She’s stumbling as they half-drag, half-carry her down the hallways, the hallways she recognizes that lead directly to the Fuhrer’s office. A cold hand wraps around her heart—no. Where was Roy?-for the prompt from fullmetalscullyy - "could i pretty please get some royai angst? uwu i saw a pretty Rad angst prompt "why do you have a gun?" and you can use it if you like but if not it's all good!! 💕" on tumblr!





	lay down.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fullmetalscully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullmetalscully/gifts).

> TRIGGER WARNING: description of PTSD, night terrors, and the aftermath.

Her body hurts. 

The black cocktail dress that she’s wearing doesn’t do much in the terms of protection or coverage. She can feel the bare patch of her thigh where her gun used to be, the tenderness along her scalp where she had been dragged by her hair, and the way she blinks and almost forgets how to open her eyes again. 

She’s been in this cell for…how long, now? She lost count. She had been doing so well, marking up the walls for the hours that she thought had passed, but now she’s being dragged away from the cell that’s held her for so long, 

They got her right at the party, didn’t listen to her as she repeated her rank over and over again, didn’t listen when they threw her in the dark cell and slammed the door shut. She had struggled once, tried to get away from them, but all she was rewarded with was a stinging pain in her cheek and a black eye. 

She’s stumbling as they half-drag, half-carry her down the hallways, the hallways she recognizes that lead directly to the Fuhrer’s office. A cold hand wraps around her heart—no. Where was Roy? Why was she being taken to Bradley? Things didn’t make sense, and for the first time in a while, Riza’s completely in the dark. 

Just like before, they throw her into the office, making her land on her knees, and close the door behind her. But what results isn’t darkness. The room is still lit enough for her to see. She lifts her head, staring out tiredly from behind her blonde fringe, expecting to see King Bradley, sitting on his throne. 

She doesn’t see Bradley. She sees Roy, sitting right where the old king used to, his eyes cold and dark. 

She opens her mouth to speak, but the first thing to come out of her mouth isn’t a careful comment. It’s a question. “Why do you have a gun?” She asks. 

The gun’s metal glints slightly, neatly residing in his right palm. It’s true, her question has foundation—he’s not one to use a gun. She’s not even quite sure he knows how to shoot, really. The sight of him having a gun makes her uncomfortable even more than she already is. 

He’s relishing it. The look of fear on her face, the way she seems so meek and unlike the strong Lieutenant he knows makes him feel strong. He’s broken her down, the strong woman who swore she’d never break. That thought brings a gleeful smile to his face. He’s filled with rage at her treachery, at her presence, at her existence. He wants to crush her under his boot. 

“You’re not him, are you? You’re Wrath.” She realizes, and Roy hisses at that name, standing up. 

“Shut up.” He growls, quickly descending down the three steps that separate him from the crumpled woman. His hand reaches out, grips her cheek, squeezes. “I am him.”

“No, you’re not. Where’s Roy? Roy, I know you’re there—“ She calls out as best as she can, her eyes searching, but she’s soon cut off by a wail of pain that’s emitted as he squeezes her chin even tighter. 

He can almost hear the slight crunching of her bones, and he knows that he’s only a few moments away from dislocating her jaw, and he lets go. He’s not quite sure why, considering that he would have been quite fine with breaking her pretty little face.

“Why are you like this?” He hears himself asking. “You stupid, idiotic Lieutenant. Can’t you fight for your own life? You didn’t fight against your father, you didn’t fight against your enlistment, you didn’t fight against me. You aren’t as strong as they say, you’re weak. Someone who needs others to make decisions.” He sneers. 

She doesn’t break eye contact as she reaches up and grabs ahold of her jaw, grinding it into place. 

Undeterred, he continues. “You’re loyal to me, aren’t you?”

“To him. Not you.” 

Ah, she already knows, there was no point denying it even further. 

“You know why I’m here, don’t you? Why I’ve occupied his body?” At her silence, he gathers that she doesn’t know. Good. “You see, Bradley was getting quite old, and he knew that he couldn’t house me anymore. But we still need a Fuhrer in this country. So, he talked to Mustang. The deal was simple: Mustang would become Fuhrer, so long as he housed me, and he carried out one order. To kill you.” He hums, quite content with the way her eyes widen comically. 

“You’re not him.” She responds, trying to keep the waver out of her voice. 

“Who says, Riza?” Roy asks, his voice dropping in the buttery-soft manner that he often said her name. It was enough to make her take pause. 

“Roy—“ She murmurs, a note of desperation in her tone.

“Tell me. If I had to shoot you for my ambitions, would you be upset at me?” He asks, still in the same tone. 

“Somewhat,” She answers. 

“Explain.”

“Well, I’d be happy for you for following your dreams. I’d be upset that you couldn’t keep your loyalty to me,” She reasons, and he laughs, a cold, rough laugh that makes her pause once more. 

“Loyalty to you?” He grins, confident. He’s got her now. “You were the only one who pledged allegiance to me. I never said I was loyal to you, Riza. But thank you for explaining.” He hums, pressing the barrel of the gun to her temple. “Now I won’t feel as bad.”

“Roy—“ She chokes out, but despite her half-hearted plea, she straightens her spine. She won’t go down as a weak woman, not his Lieutenant. 

“I’ll see you in Hell, Lieutenant.” He smirks, and NO! He doesn’t want to grab the trigger, he doesn’t want to, but he’s squeezing it, he’s squeezing it, and she crumples, she’s dead, the blood staining the floor—

“Roy—“ She calls out again—already her voice is haunting him, but this sounds farther—

“R-Roy—“ She whispers, almost as if she can’t suck enough air in to whisper his name, and that is when he blinks awake. 

She’s under him, brown eyes wide, his hand firmly clenched around her throat. She’s red in the face, struggling to suck a breath in, and her hands are wrapped around his, trying in vain to tug him off. 

His dark eyes widen, a perfect reflection of hers, and he yanks his hand off of her like he’s been burned. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god. She coughs, replacing where his hand were, her fingers pressing in small rhythmic massages to ease the pain. 

He surges off the bed, distinctly aware of the way his clothes cling to him, moist with his sweat.He barely makes it to the bathroom sink before he retches, dry heaving, but his stomach is empty, there’s nothing to retch out. He washes his mouth with water, but the acrid taste of his mouth still lingers, the poison a reminder of his actions. 

He bends over the counter, cheek digging into the cold granite, and tries to catch his breath. He’s scared of closing his eyes for fear of seeing the same dream again, to wake up seeing the woman he loves dying at his hands. 

A gentle hand comes to rest on his back, rubbing a circle. Almost instinctively, he relaxes, and curses himself for it. He does not trust himself to speak, not even when she slides a hand into his hair and runs her fingers through the mess, separating the matted dark strands. 

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go get some water.” Her voice doesn’t waver, is eternally patient, but he can hear the undercurrent of a rasp in her warm tone. A rasp that he caused. Still, he does not speak, allows her to grip his hand and tug him away from the bathroom, past their room and into the kitchen. 

She only turns one light on, a muted one that flickers weakly in the corner. Roy leans against the counter, eyes unseeing as she snags a glass of water, filling it to the brim with the cold liquid. She presses the glass into his hands, and doesn’t need to tell him anything: he lifts the lip of the glass to his lips and sucks down the crisp liquid in short, staggered sips. 

“Want more?” She asks quietly, and he shakes his head in response. She sets the glass in the sink, too lazy to wash it at such a late time, and returns to him. There is no hesitation in the way she slides her arms around him, resting her head against his chest. There is hesitation in his response, the gentle way he sets his hands on her back. 

“Why didn’t you stop me?” Roy asks, and she pulls back, looking at the tortured expression on his face. 

“I would have stopped you if I needed you to.” She murmurs, her tone logical. 

He can’t. He can’t do this. A rational part of him knows that she would have been able to simply reach for her “items” in the nightstand over, quickly subdue him, but he can’t stop thinking about it, he can’t stop thinking about the way his hands were so tight around her neck, the way she was looking up at him with those wide eyes, the way he came so close to killing her. 

“You want to talk about it?” She asks gently. 

No. He doesn’t want to think about what just happened, but he knows he can’t escape it, he knows he can’t ever get those images out of his head. In a swift motion, he’s gently pushing her back, away from him. He hurt her. He hurt her. 

“Roy?” Riza whispers, a questioning look on her face, and it’s too close to the way she had wheezed out his name. Everything is happening too fast, he can hear the blood rushing in his ears, the way his hands are slightly trembling, and worst of all, he can almost make out the bruises beginning to form on her neck. 

He takes her arm, his grip quite loose and barely hanging onto the soft cotton of the shirt she wore, and leads her out, towards the door. 

She follows, uncertain. “Roy?” She calls out again, as if he didn’t hear her the first time. 

“You should go.” He whispers, resolute in his decision. “You need to go.” He hurt her. He hurt her. He didn’t deserve her. 

“Let’s talk about this, wait—“ She protests, but he’s gently leading her out of his apartment, and closes the door in her face. She shouldn’t be there. She shouldn’t be hurt by him. She should be with someone who doesn’t kill her in his sleep—someone who isn’t a murderer. 

He can vaguely hear a noise at his door, but he stumbles off to bed, swaddling himself in the sheets that are simply too constricting and hot, and lies awake for the rest of the night, clenching his hands and missing the warmth of someone next to him. 

It’s for her own good, he knows that, but still, he can’t help but miss her. 

He doesn’t get a wink of sleep that entire night. 

—

For once, he is early to the office. 

He’s there before the sun even comes up, working and working and working, and hoping that he drowns in the paperwork that has accumulated on his desk. He signs and signs, his pen growing wearier with every use, the remnants of his night slowly seeping away with every hour that passes. 

Falman makes his way to the office first, greeting him with a friendly grin and a wave. Roy manages a nod back, and he doesn’t catch the concerned expression on the Warrant Officer’s face. 

Breda saunters in next, about to make a smart-ass comment about Mustang being on time for once, but his colleague quickly stops him. Roy doesn’t pay attention to the whispers coming from the two men. 

In fact, Roy doesn’t look up from his paperwork at all when Fuery walks in.

He only glances up when she does. 

She’s wearing a turtleneck, a simple gray one that extends out past the collar of her uniform and covers up where the marks should be. She greets everyone normally, gives him a small nod, and sinks down at her desk. She’s angry, he can practically feel the coldness radiating from her. Her face is gaunt, the dark circles under her eyes more prevalent than ever, and she doesn’t meet his eyes once. 

Havoc walks in after her, the last addition to their little team, and he looks as tired as Roy does. His hello is not hearty as it usually is, and he sinks down and gets to work without lighting up a single cigarette. 

All is not well. 

—

She’s not angry. She’s fuming. He sees it in the too-tight way she’s gripping her pen, or the way that her hair is pinned too neatly, without a trademark strand falling out of it. 

He supposes that she has a right to be—he shut her out without further explanation—but she was always so logical, so understanding, surely she’ll understand that he did it for her, for her protection. He’s a monster, someone that’s _dangerous_. She doesn’t deserve that. 

When the minute hand slowly ticks up to a vertical position to meet the short hand, the officers slowly begin filing out of the office to take their lunch break. Fuery and Falman leave first, and upon their return, Breda leaves.

Before he takes his break, Havoc sidles up next to his desk, dropping his voice down to a hushed murmur. A toothpick is between his lips, replacing his usual cigarette, and Mustang figures that Catalina’s trying to wean him off tobacco. 

“I’m taking my lunch break now, boss.” He murmurs, and the blue eyes seem abnormally tired, a bit dull. He drops his voice a bit more. “Not encouraging it, but maybe you want to make sure that Hawkeye has a coat and a place to stay when you dump her out on the streets at two in the morning.” He murmurs, and raises his hands in a placating gesture when Roy’s head snaps up. “Hey, man. I’m not going to pretend like I know what goes on between you and the Lieutenant. But you should know that you should steer clear of Rebecca for a couple of weeks.” Havoc says easily before stepping away, and hightails it out of the office, the door closing shut behind him. 

In fact, he can almost hear a sigh of relief from the other side of the door, possibly Havoc being relieved that he’s away from the Flame Alchemist’s range. 

Roy, on the other hand, isn’t sharing the same emotions as his subordinate. In fact, his eyes seemed to be fixated on the woman who diligently worked, slightly rounded with horror. He hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t thought of her, about where she would go, about what time it had been. Hell, he hadn’t even let her grab anything—he had been too selfish, too self-absorbed. 

He knows that he should take Havoc’s warning seriously, that he should stay away from Catalina, but he needs to know what happened, to fill in the blanks. 

[to Catalina: I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, but I really need to know something.]

[from Catalina: like HELL]

[from Catalina:i’m not telling you anything.]

[to Catalina: Please? I know I’m a terrible person, and yesterday was the most selfish I’ve ever been in my life. Can you please tell me what happened yesterday? When did Riza call you, what did she say?]

[from Catalina: look, roy. if you want this information, you’re just going to have to ask her. I’m not going to give you anything.]

Roy sets his phone down with a sigh, barely managing to contain the short huff of frustration that usually accompanies the aftermath of his conversations with Catalina. 

—

He waits. 

Eventually, the stack on the table decreases. The sun goes down, leaving an inky indigo-stained sky in its wake. Falman almost falls asleep at his desk, and it takes Fuery poking him with a pencil to wake him up. The two walk out quickly, ready to end the day. 

Havoc and Breda share meaningful looks, and both of them give small nods to Mustang as they leave. A small sign of camaraderie. They understand that he might want private time—they want things to be alright as much as he does. 

Eventually, she finishes, content with having her desk clean and bare of anymore work for her to do. She makes her way up to his desk and addresses him.

“I’ll take my leave now, sir.” She murmurs, and the sound of her voice is almost enough to make him drop to his knees and beg her for forgiveness. She doesn’t meet his eyes, and he thinks he might be going a bit crazy. 

“Lieutenant, wait—“ He stands, heart hammering in his chest. He needs to fix this. He needs to fix this. “Riza, please,” No other words are making their way out from his mouth—he feels flustered, atoning to something that should have never happened. 

“Riza, I’m sorry.” 

“For what, Roy?” She asks, and her voice is measured, controlled. 

“For yesterday. I didn’t meant to push you away, I didn’t meant to be so rude—“ He apologizes. 

“You don’t have to apologize to me. Not for that. I understand what happened quite well, Roy.” She’s referencing the dreams, the way he lashed out. She knows, she knows, because she was there, she experiences herself. And despite her saying that he doesn’t have to apologize, Roy knows that things are not alright just yet. 

“I do. I do have to apologize.” He drops his voice, a soft cadence to match hers, almost like he’s approaching a deer. “Riza,” He whispers. “I’m sorry.” His thumb gently swipes across her jaw, asking for permission, and when she doesn’t whip out a knife and cut the offending finger off, he gently tugs down the turtleneck, and reveals the dark blemishes that decorate her neck. 

“What happened after?” He asks, and he knows that he doesn’t need to elucidate further. She understands his question, much like she understands him. 

“I…waited. To see if you would open the door. You….didn’t. I walked downstairs, and realized I didn’t have my keys, my phone, or anything, really. I used the phone in the lobby of the hotel down the street, called Rebecca. Havoc came to pick me up. They asked questions, but I didn’t say anything, just said I was too tired and that I wanted to sleep.” She answers, and the thought of her, stuck outside in the cold, barely managing to find a place to sleep is too much. He can’t. He’s hurt her, again, in more ways that he could ever dream. 

“God, Riza. I’m so, so, sorry. I thought it was for the better, that you shouldn’t be next to me, that I hurt you—and I didn’t even stop to think that I was hurting you even more by basically tossing you out, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Riza—“ He whispers. 

“Roy-“ She whispers, and something else is in her tone: recognition. “Did you want me to take a step back because you were scared of hurting me again?” She clarifies, making sure that she’s gotten the right grasp of things. 

The way he hangs his head and whispers a defeated “I’m a monster,” is confirmation enough. 

Almost immediately her arms go around him, gently guiding his head to rest on her shoulder. “No, Roy, no. You aren’t a monster.”

“I hurt you.”

“You didn’t. You don’t think I would have smacked you off of me if I thought that something seriously was going to happen?”

“I pushed you away.”

“We’ll have to work on that, but that’s okay. That’s okay, sweetheart. You’re well within your rights to have your space, as long as you talk about it and keep the lines of communication open.” Her tone is so soothing, so logical, so rational, that he slowly allows himself to give in, to believe her words. 

He wraps his arms around her, tightly, squeezing her frame against his. She’s holding onto him just as desperately, clinging to him so much that her feet aren’t even planted on the ground anymore. 

“You deserve so much better.”He whispers, his voice slightly muffled by the fabric covering her shoulder. 

“I don’t need better. I have the best.” She mumbles, fingers gently stroking through the dark hair found near the nape of his neck. 

They’re far from perfection, but he finds that he doesn’t mind so much. They go home, and he tells her. He tells her about her cell, Wrath, the gun, everything. She soothes him, her thumb wiping away tears, her lips pressing soft kisses of reassurance. 

He returns the favor, lips paying homage to each bruise and blemish, an apology whispered between each one. 

They sleep, content and twined in each other’s arms. They do not have faith in the world around them or the world inside their heads, but what they have is more powerful than any of that. 

They have faith in one another. 

**Author's Note:**

> eek, i hope you liked it! to everyone else who submitted an ask, i'm working on it, i promise! things are a bit hectic right now, but it should clear up in the upcoming weeks. 
> 
> love it? hate it? have some intense feelings about it? leave a comment! 
> 
> drop a kudos if you enjoyed!
> 
> thank you for reading, and as always, catch me on tumblr: @chai-and-coffee


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